


Through the Looking-Glass

by ChancellorGriffin



Series: 2017 & 2019 "The 100" Kink Meme Fills [10]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bathtub Sex, F/M, Mirror Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 05:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17574938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: An antique mirror next to that Polis tower bathtub gives Kane and Abby a new way to see themselves . . . literally and figuratively.





	Through the Looking-Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from the recent "The 100" kink meme on LiveJournal (original link here - https://100kinkmeme.livejournal.com/3621.html?thread=841765#t841765), so thanks to whoever prompted it!

Like everything else in the tower, the mirror had been there for nearly a century – more, probably, since its ornate gilt frame proclaimed it likely to have been old even before the bombs fell – and the fact that it remained so well-preserved was itself a kind of miracle. There were times when Polis made her feel, for a few moments at least, as though she were living on the Earth she’d only known from stories. The Earth where things like gold mirrors and fresh fruit and hot baths were impossibly ordinary things, taken for granted by the ordinary people who enjoyed them.  
  
Someone had built this mirror, polished its glass and carved and painted its frame, and someone had sold it, and someone had bought it, and hung it on a wall; and then the world ended, and all of those people died. And then someone else, hunting for salvage, found it and brought it here, hauled it up to the top story of a tower whose elevators no longer worked – lugged it up on a wood platform, maybe, with a winch and pulley – for no practical reason except to make this room a little more beautiful, opening up a dark corner by reflecting more light.  
  
It stood beside the copper bathtub, tucked into the recesses of the ambassador’s quarters; by day, doubling the bright morning sun from the window, and by night, reflecting the flickering amber glow of candles.  
  
Mirrors on the Ark were modest, utilitarian things, dingy circles mounted over cramped sinks. Jake could never see all of his face to shave at one time; he had to angle his entire body to catch first his left side, then his right. Both Clarke and Abby learned at very young ages to do their own hair by feel instead of by sight; a braid over the shoulder was simple, and required no elbowing for bathroom space.  
  
Abby was nearly fifty years old the first time she saw her whole body in a mirror.  
  
It was during their third night together, after having shared their first-ever experience with a proper hot bath. Abby had a bunk on one of the lower floors, in quarters she’d been meant to share with Jackson. But she never got there. After Clarke and Bellamy had left Polis and they were alone together for the first time since shutting down the City of Light, it had suddenly seemed inevitable that she and Marcus would find their way to each other, that the flimsy excuse to visit his quarters and check his bandages again would turn into a marathon of lovemaking that left them both collapsed into a sweaty heap nearly six hours later.  
  
(After that, it had seemed silly to pretend she would be returning downstairs to shack up on a cramped bunk with Jackson.)  
  
For the first two days and nights, they’d hardly left the bed, pausing only occasionally to sleep for a few hours, or exercise Kane’s privileges as Skaikru ambassador by sending down to the kitchens for something to eat. At first, they were fueled by pure instinct, greedy for each other, the thing simmering between them now acknowledged and blossoming into a force that overtook their entire bodies. By the third day, necks were stiff, backs were sore, eye contact with the long-suffering Grounder attendants outside their not-at-all-soundproof door was mildly awkward, and a rueful amusement at their own teenage behavior left them drowsy and giggly and affectionate.  
  
This was when Marcus suggested the bath.  
  
They had been too distracted by other things to pay it much heed before this, but now, with a bit of tinkering and exploration, Marcus was able to find a way to get it working again, and it became the most interesting part of the room. There was a kind of primitive water pump built into the wall, drawing from some kind of pipe system that connected to a well somewhere, and a bank of coals beneath the tub’s copper base to warm the water. In a chest nearby they found thick woven towels, several bottles of potent scented oils, and even a small box of dried rose petals to scatter onto the surface.

“If I said this was better than sex,” said Marcus, sighing with orgasmic relief as he sank down into the aromatic, bubbling-hot water and leaned back to close his eyes in perfect bliss, “would you be offended?”  
  
_“Are_ you saying that?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“But it is the nearest second place I’ve ever experienced.”  
  
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Abby firmly, as she stepped over the edge of the tub into the delicious heat, settling herself comfortably with her back to his chest, the water so deep her body was submerged up to the top of her breasts.  
  
Marcus waited. “Well?”  
  
“Not _better,”_ she amended, turning her head to press a kiss onto his shoulder, “but very, very close.”  
  
“Better than _other_ sex,” he said tactfully. “Not better than sex with _you.”_  
  
“That’s a very chivalrous answer.”  
  
“Only the truth,” he said, letting his hands move under the water to lie flat against her stomach, stroking the skin tenderly. “The last few days have been . . .” He halted, struggling for the words.  
  
Abby let her hands rest over his, curling up contentedly against his chest, the ends of her long hair trailing into the bubbling water. “I know. It feels like a dream. Like it’s wrong, somehow, with everything we’re up against, that we get to be this happy.”  
  
“’Happy,’” Marcus repeated, full of wonder, as though the word was unfamiliar. She turned to look at him, a question in her eyes. He smiled down at her, kissing her hair, and shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said, almost apologetically. “It’s just –“  
  
“Just what?”  
  
“I’m just trying to remember the last time anybody told me that I made them happy,” he said, “and I can’t think of one.”  
  
Every once in awhile, the inherent loneliness of Marcus Kane’s life – the way he received affection with a kind of baffled gratitude, like it was a language he didn’t speak, like he’d been mistakenly handed a parcel meant for someone else – twisted at the edges of Abby’s heart so tightly that she worried someday it would shatter. She had raised a child, she had been married, she had lived all her adult life in daily proximity to two bodies who both took comfort from her own, and gave it back in return. Marcus Kane had never held a sleeping baby as it drowsed into the crook of his elbow. He had never come home at the end of a long day to a partner waiting in bed to offer a foot massage. Abby was new to the sensations that came with loving Marcus Kane, but she was not new to the experience of love itself, and from time to time she was reminded that the man in front of her was wandering blind, in foreign territory, where Abby would have to guide him.  
  
“Happiness hasn’t exactly been plentiful, since we landed on the ground,” she said. “Moments, here and there; but always snatched away.”  
  
“I was happy in Arkadia,” he said thoughtfully. “Sometimes. Despite everything. There were moments when I think I was happy.”  
  
“Me too,” she agreed. “Despite everything. As much as I could be, without knowing where Clarke was, I was happy there too.” She let her hand rest over his. “Because of you,” she said to him. “With you.”  
  
“And now everything we built is gone, and the world is ending in six months, and somehow this is the most content I’ve ever been. Why is that?”  
  
“Because we’ve stopped lying to ourselves,” she said softly, turning in his arms to press a soft kiss against his mouth, as his palms slid wetly up her skin. “And we aren’t afraid anymore.”  
  
“That’s the difference between us,” he murmured. “You’re never afraid, and I always am.”  
  
“Even now?”  
  
“More now than ever,” he confessed. “I finally have something worth holding onto that I don’t want to lose.”  
  
Abby looked down, with a flicker of a sly grin, at his hands, which had glided up her torso under the water and were absentmindedly stroking the soft white flesh of her breasts.  
  
“Oh, do you, now?” she quipped, causing him to drop his hands immediately as a blush swept across his face and neck and chest, up to the roots of his hair.  
  
“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“No, it’s okay. I appreciate that you think my breasts are a treasure worth fighting for.”  
  
“Now you’re making fun of me.”  
  
“I’m almost fifty and I’ve had a baby,” she said a little dryly. “I’d just about given up on finding another man who’d feel this strongly about them.”

She’d said it as a joke, but there was just enough of a shadow underneath it that Marcus didn’t laugh, tilting his head to the side to regard her in something like astonishment.  
  
“You can’t possibly mean that,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known in my life. Just as much now as you were when you were nineteen. More, actually,” he added thoughtfully, stroking a damp lock out of her face. “I like your hair like this. And I like these.” He stroked the delicate crow’s feet beside her eyes with his knuckle. “When you smile, your real smile, you get wrinkles right here. You didn’t have them when you were younger.” He stroked the laugh lines beside her mouth. “Or these.”  
  
She pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. “You’re sweet.”  
  
He shook his head. “Stand up,” he suddenly said, tightening his arm around her, lifting them both to their feet in the knee-deep water, and before she knew it he had turned them both at an angle so they were facing the mirror.  
  
For the first time in her whole life, Abby Griffin took in her entire body at once.  
  
Not a rendering on a medical scanner. Not fractured into a tiny Ark mirror, piece by piece, but all of her, right here, just as she was.  
  
“God, look at you," murmured Marcus, leaning down to press a kiss into the back of her neck. “Look how beautiful you are.”  
  
And she did look.  
  
She watched his fingertips glide over her belly to trace the faint scars of pregnancy stretch marks and a Caesarean section. She looked at the long, thick hair tangled over her shoulders, faintly threaded with silver, curling with damp at the ends. She looked at the swell of her breasts, as heavy and full today as they’d been when she had Clarke (“bonus perk for new dads,” Jake had teased every time he nuzzled into them). She looked at the tendons in her deft surgeon’s hands, and the taut muscles of her shoulders and thighs, strong despite her compact frame. She looked at the soft brown triangle of downy hair covering her pubic mound, which Kane had spent so much time over the past few days caressing with fingers and tongue.  
  
She thought about the aching loneliness of widowhood in her late forties, the desperate, choking fear that the other side of the bed would be empty for the rest of her life, and she thought about how extraordinary it was that she should be here, in this place, standing knee-deep in a copper bathtub, staring at her body in a gold-framed mirror, rose petals swirling around her in the water, Marcus Kane’s hands clutching her bare hips as he gazed adoringly at her mirrored reflection, and in that moment, she saw what he saw. She saw herself the way Marcus did.  
  
She was still beautiful, and she was cherished and desired, and she had not lost her only chance at happiness, and the other side of the bed had someone in it again, someone whose heart beat against hers as they drifted off to sleep at night, and she felt alive, electric, powerful, like she could do anything.  
  
“I want to look at you,” she whispered, moving behind him to let them both take in his body, unobscured. “Let me look at you.”

He flinched a little, at this, and moved as though to cover himself up, but resisted, though she could see his hands twitching a little at his sides. He was profoundly unused to such deep attention, and there was something thrillingly vulnerable about the way he could not quite meet her eyes in the mirror.  
  
“You’re beautiful too,” she whispered, kissing his shoulder, letting her hands roam freely over his body. The broad, powerful muscles of his chest, softened a bit with age, but no less strong. He, also, had vastly improved since nineteen; he’d been a lanky youth, all pale skin and sharp elbows, and she hadn’t found that Marcus Kane handsome or appealing at all. It was this one she liked – the one whose body was covered in scars and bruises she traced with her fingers, whose skin had deepened to bronze in the sun.  
  
She touched the mark on his thigh from the collapsed Tondc rubble. The faded burn scars on his palms from when he’d climbed through a boiling hot tunnel to get to her. The still-healing marks of the crucifix on his wrists. She let her hands rest on the slope of the faintly rounded belly he was endearingly shy of, and reached up to brush her knuckles over the salt-and-pepper scruff of his beard.  
  
“Beautiful,” she repeated, letting her lips trail over his back, nuzzling into the damp, flushed skin, and when she opened her eyes again she could see in the mirror that the heavy, soft cock which had been slumbering between his thighs had begun to twitch to life again.  
  
“Don’t,” she insisted when she felt him move to turn around, to face her. “Stay here. Stay with me. Watch with me.”  
  
Marcus swallowed hard, and obeyed her, their eyes locked together in the mirror as Abby’s hand slipped around his waist and wrapped around his cock.  
  
“I’ve never watched someone touch me before,” he whispered. “I’ve never . . . seen what you see.”  
  
“Watch with me,” she said again, pressing her body against his side, letting her cunt seek friction against his hip, as her hand slowly began to stroke him up and down. “Don’t look away.”  
  
“Abby . . . oh God, Abby . . .”  
  
She reached down into the water to cup her palm full of hot water, and trailed steaming droplets over his cock, smiling at his stunned shiver of pleasure. His cock was as beautiful as the rest of him, flushed a deep rose with both arousal and heat, ridged with a topographical map of veins she’d begun to memorize over the past few days with her fingertips and her tongue.  
  
“How do you do it, when you do it to yourself?” she whispered into his damp skin. “I want to watch you.”  
  
His cheeks reddened. “I can’t,” he muttered, breaking her gaze in the mirror. “Not . . . not in front of you.”  
  
“I will if you will,” she murmured, which got his attention, his dark eyes widening and finding hers again.  
  
“You mean, watch you . . . in the mirror, while you –“  
  
“Make myself wet for you,” she answered boldly, shivering with anticipation, and a shudder rumbled through Marcus Kane’s entire body. “Now make yourself hard, for me.” She leaned down to the bottles of scented, aromatic oils, and poured a few drops into the palm of his hand. “There,” she said. “Now let me watch you make yourself feel good.”

He took a long, shaky breath, before clutching his cock in a loose fist and beginning to stroke it. Abby’s cunt began to ache almost immediately; the slick, hissing slide of his lubricated hand against the ever-hardening flushed weight of his cock was wicked and delicious and mesmerizing. She could not look away. Neither, it seemed, could Marcus, who watched himself as intently as she did, observing for the first time in all his life an act he’d been doing blindly for decades. Together they watched as he alternated between reflexive - the brisk, methodical, unimaginative technique of a teenager, jerking himself off the way he’d been doing it all his life – and exploratory – touching himself in ways that were clearly new, watching his body’s own reactions and guiding himself to new sensations.  
  
“Is it strange?” she murmured curiously. “To be touching yourself, like you do when you’re alone, but I’m here instead?”  
  
“It isn’t the first time,” he said in a low voice which sounded almost like a confession, and her heart turned over in her chest.  
  
“You mean you . . .” She swallowed hard. “You’ve done this and – and thought of me?”  
  
He nodded, not breaking her gaze as his hand slowed, watching her face to see if she would mind, or if saying what he had just said crossed some kind of line.  
  
“I have too,” she told him, and the tension drained out of his entire body as his face lit up with a heady combination of relief, affection, surprise, and desire.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Sometimes, in my room at Arkadia, next door to yours, I was afraid you could hear me.”  
  
“I did,” he breathed. “More than once. But I thought I was imagining it. That I was dreaming of you so strongly that I’d started hearing things.”  
  
“All that wasted time,” she said, kissing his shoulder. “We could have been doing this months ago.”  
  
His hand on his cock sped up, and she knew he was back at Arkadia, thinking of all the times he’d accidentally overheard her heavy breathing and rustling sheets, and picturing anew what she’d been doing on the other side of the wall.  
  
“Don’t make yourself come,” she told him. “Not yet. Not this way.”  
  
“Then I’d better stop,” he said hoarsely. “I’m so close, Abby.”  
  
“I like watching you.”  
  
“I like watching you watch me.” He turned to kiss her, his tongue sweeping fiercely into her mouth, hands tangling in her hair. “But now it’s your turn.”  
  
He stepped back, pulling her body back in front of his, and she shivered deliciously at the feel of his hard cock, slick with rose-scented oil, pressing against her ass before sliding her fingertips down between her thighs.  
  
“Show me what you were doing, in that bedroom next door to mine,” he growled into her hair, kissing it over and over. “Make yourself come for me, like you did then. Teach me how you like it.”  
  
He slung one arm low around her hips, holding her up so she could melt back into his body, and began to rub soft little circles around her clit, purring contentedly in his arms.  
  
“Is this how you like to start?”  
  
“Mmmm,” she sighed. “Gentle at first. Just to get myself wet, and relaxed.”  
  
“I want to see,” he whispered. “Open yourself up to me.” And with that, he lifted her right leg out of the water and guided it up so she could plant one foot firmly on the edge of the copper tub. Thighs now spread for the mirror, her cunt was visible to her in a way it had never been before, and she found herself alternating, as Marcus had, between movements guided by decades of practiced instinct, and the odd, heady feeling of exploring her own body by sight.  
  
She ran her fingers up and down the puffy outer lips of her labia, then stroked the delicate, dusty-rose folds just inside, shivery-sweet to the touch. She could see the bud of her clit, if she held her labia apart, and looked at it for a long time, letting the tip of one finger just brush it slightly.  
  
“Sometimes, when you heard me, I was doing this,” she whispered. “Touching myself like this.”  
  
“How else did you like to do it?”  
  
“Sometimes like this,” she whispered, and let him watch as she slowly guided two fingers into the opening of her cunt.

“Oh,” he murmured, awestruck, eyes dark and heavy with lust as he watched. “Oh God, Abby . . .”  
  
“Sometimes, when I was in that bed, when I was thinking of you, Marcus –“  
  
“Don’t say it, I’m already so close I’m afraid I might –“  
  
“I was imagining my fingers were your cock,” she finished recklessly, and he groaned into her skin, nuzzling rough kisses into her neck. She could feel his iron hardness pulsing against her skin, and it gave her a rush of power to know her words alone could draw such sensations out of him.  
  
“Close your eyes, and think of me,” he murmured. “Like you did then. Make yourself come like you’re dreaming of me.”  
  
She slid her foot outward, opening her hips even wider and leaning back into his body to give him a better view. Then he watched her close her eyes, breathe deeply, and pump her fingers in and out of her cunt, ragged breaths punctuated by soft little cries of pleasure.  
  
“I can hear how wet you are,” he whispered, shivering at the warm, slick sounds. “I want you so badly, Abby.”  
  
“I’m almost there,” she gasped out, hips rocking forward and back, “and then I’m yours.”  
  
“Come for me, Abby. Come in my arms. Let me watch you.”  
  
When the orgasm came, he watched a pink flush slowly sweep over her skin – not just her cheeks and throat, where he’d seen it before, but her entire body, from her brow to the tops of her thighs. Her body shuddered against his, fingers thrusting, hips bucking, and then she gave a deep, rolling shudder and a soft animal moan before withdrawing her fingers, which he leaned forward and seized with his mouth before he could stop himself, startling her as he licked the taste of her off them.  
  
“Now,” she ordered him, “before we both lose our minds.”  
  
“Yes,” he whispered, gripping her tight, and then he was inside her.  
  
They both exhaled together, a mix of hunger and relief, as his cock pushed hard into her soaked cunt from behind. With her thighs still parted, and with his arms around her to support her weight, holding her up, they could watch the place where their bodies joined together, the swell of his cock disappearing into the glistening pink of her cunt.  
  
“Oh, _Jesus,”_ Marcus whispered reverently. “I’ve never –“  
  
“Neither have I.”  
  
“Why does seeing it make everything feel so much more . . . I don’t know. _More.”_  
  
“Deeper,” Abby pleaded, and then gasped in pleasure as she watched another inch, then another, of his length vanish inside her, until all they could see was the swell of two heavy mounds pressed tight against the mound of her cunt.  
  
_“Fuck,”_ Kane muttered, in a voice that was almost a growl, and then he did.  
  
Abby nearly screamed at the sensation of feeling him slide nearly all the way out of her, then plunge back in, but it was amplified a hundredfold by the wicked pleasure of seeing it, of watching his hard, glistening-wet, rosy-purple shaft move in and out as she held the folds of her labia apart to give them an unobstructed view.  
  
“I think I’m going to come again,” she gasped.  
  
“Good,” he breathed into the hollow of her throat. “I like watching it.”  
  
“Touch me,” she said, “like I did it, like I showed you.”  
  
“Here?” he asked, the rough pads of his fingertips rubbing perfect circles around her clit.  
  
“Right there,” she moaned, “right there, don’t stop.”  
  
“Don’t close your eyes,” he told her, as he watched her body begin to swoon with pleasure. “Don’t look away. Watch us. Look at us.” He pressed a kiss into her hair. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, between jagged, panting breaths. “Your body is so beautiful. Your hair. Your breasts. Your skin. Your cunt. You’re perfect. Every inch of you, perfect.”  
  
“So are you,” she moaned as his cock and hand joined together to draw her orgasm closer and closer. “I want to know every part of your body better than anyone else ever has. I want to memorize you.”  
  
“No one has ever looked at me the way you look at me,” he breathed, arms tightening around her body, and she could feel the orgasm begin to swell up from the deepest part of him. His fingers sped up on her cunt as his hips rocked into hers, and when he fell, he took her with him, his low desperate cries like an echo under hers.

He came and came, shuddering against her, and the sensation of being filled by him drew her own climax out, until they were both flushed and trembling and watching, rapt, as he withdrew his now-soft cock from her cunt and a river of sticky white trailed out after it to run down her thighs and into the rose-scented bath.  
  
They rinsed themselves off in blissful, dazed silence, the water cooling around them, sluicing the sticky combination of cum and sweat from their bodies and leaving them feeling clean once more, before Marcus lifted Abby out of the copper tub and stepped out after her.  
  
It wasn’t until they were curled up together under the thick fur covers of his bed that either of them spoke again.  
  
“That was the most intimate thing I’ve ever done,” he murmured. “With anyone. Not just the sex, I mean, but -”  
  
“No, I know,” she said, curling up into his side and pressing a kiss on his chest. “Me too.”  
  
He smiled at that, and she could tell instantly that - aside from being perfectly true - it had been the right thing to say.  
  
Something of Abby’s that belong to him, only. To him, first. An experience he didn’t have to share with Jake Griffin. A reminder that it was not too late for either of them to continue discovering new firsts, that their relationship was theirs and could be anything they chose to make of it, and that two decades married to another man did not leave him at a disadvantage, as though starting out in second place.  
  
“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmured, his fingertips idly stroking the damp, velvet skin of her belly.  
  
“What the sex? Or watching ourselves in a mirror? Or the bath?”  
  
“Falling in love,” he said seriously, and she sat up, turning to look at him, hair a dark curtain hanging over her naked shoulder, as she cupped his face in both her hands.  
  
“Say it,” she whispered. “Say it, and I promise I’ll say it too.”  
  
“I love you, Abby,” he said, a warm, sad smile in his brown eyes. “You’re the first. It’s only ever been you.”  
  
“I love you, Marcus,” she said, pressing back the sting of tears, as she leaned down to press a kiss on his mouth. “Every stubborn inch of you, from head to toe.”


End file.
